


ripe old age

by thefudge



Series: jake gyllenhaal doesn't need a hug [3]
Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Pandemics, Phone Calls & Telephones, Power Dynamics, Power Play, ost: britney - work bitch, set during the pandemic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24032638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: He’s always putty in his hands. Soft, relenting plasticine, thirsty human clay. Tom/Jake
Relationships: Jake Gyllenhaal/Tom Holland
Series: jake gyllenhaal doesn't need a hug [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1495505
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49





	ripe old age

**Author's Note:**

> oops, i did it again

“You know what you are? You're _boring_. You’re literally putting me to sleep.”

He sounds petulant. He sounds like he’s acting.

Jake laughs, coyly runs a hand through shoulder-length hair. The screen mirror spares him no feelings. He looks handsomely unkempt, handsomely old. Handsomely decrepit. 

Tom yawns for effect. “ _So_ sleepy.”

Jake swallows. “It’s barely noon, buddy.”

Tom stretches like a taut little leopard. “Sort of had a rough night. Didn’t get much sleep.”

Jake fakes concern. That is to say, he fakes friendly concern. Of course he cares about his rough night. But he’s afraid to ask what happened. _Who_ happened. He knows he’s not quarantining alone.

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

Tom rolls off the bed. He picks up the phone and walks him down the hallway. “Yes, too bad. But that’s _my_ excuse. What’s yours, lazybones?”

_Lazybones._

Jake flicks his wrist, to stop from wanting to run his hand through his hair again. “What are you talking about? I’m wide awake.”

“That’s what you call awake?” Tom chides fondly. “You haven’t shaved or showered, have you?”

Jake touches the back of his neck. “What, you can smell me through the phone?”

Tom grins. “Maybe. I’m heading to the gym. Would be nice if you joined me.”

Jake doesn’t want to exercise in tandem. He feels he’s already extenuated himself physically trying to keep up with Tom’s social media. So many horrible little gestures of adoration - he does not want to dwell on any of them. Tom does not realize how hard it is to be a public figure and stoop to such humiliating parlor games where everyone can see.

Or, he does know, and lets him stew. 

“I’m fine with watching,” he rasps. 

Tom shakes his head. “Lazybones. We’ll have none of that.”

Jake smiles. “None of what?”

Tom heaves an adolescent sigh. “I won’t encourage your shameless inertia. You can’t just watch me for free. You have to actually _do_ something.”

“Do what? Other than calisthenics.”

The interesting young god does not like this kind of humor. He’ll joke in public, he’ll tease in front of cameras, he’ll ribald with the best. But he does not compromise in private. His demands are not negotiable.

“I’m hanging up now. Let’s reschedule this chat for when you’re a bit more cooperative, hm?” Tom winks. But he doesn’t mean it. He doesn't mean anything. 

Jake feels his jaw bite down on nothing. “Wait –”

It’s wretched how quickly he folds. How fast his pride sinks to the bottom of the ocean.

He’s always putty in his hands. Soft, relenting plasticine, thirsty human clay.

“Wait,” he repeats.

Tom walks towards the fridge, balancing the phone in one hand. He grabs an apple. “I’m waiting.”

_Fuck_ , it always feels like the first time every time he touches himself for the ungrateful brat.

He slips his hand inside the waistband of his pants. He fumbles with himself. 

Tom leans against the fridge, biting into the rind.

“ _Boring_ ,” he says through mouthfuls.

Jake licks his lips, sweat beading his forehead. He knows what the little shit wants.

He sets the phone down. He takes off his pants entirely. He pulls down his underwear, just enough for Tom to have a good view.

Tom says nothing. He doesn’t thank him for the bare flesh. He munches and watches.

You’d think it’d be hard, but it’s really fucking not.

Jake hisses and exhales loudly as he runs his hand tentatively down his shaft. Reacquainting.

He always thought he was camera-shy. Never sent a dick pic in his life, could swear on the Bible. Never thought he’d do this either. But it’s the fourth time in two months. And it always feels like the first time. Tom’s eyes wash him clean.

Tom sucks the juice from the apple's core and watches the older man on screen pump his cock to the tune of his chewing. It’s pretty fantastic.

Jake’s eyes are half-lidded. He knows if he closes them, Tom won’t like it.

Tom licks his fingers.

Jake’s breath stutters, fingers forget the scales, stroke clumsy and desperate and needy and hungry for the judge’s approval.

Tom cocks his head to the side. Yes, that’ll do.

Jake tries not to look in the screen’s mirror. It’s too much, all at once. Ripe old age and even riper lust.

He comes hot and fast on the half-moon of his palm, and the rest spills on the still firm belly of his stomach and he moans _after_ the fact, as if it took everything from him.

Tom brings his hand to his mouth and wipes the remnants of apple.

“You're not going to leave that mess there, are you?” he asks, thumb dwelling on his lower lip. Tracing it like a kiss. “Clean it up for me.” He sounds younger. Always younger. 

Jake groans. He slides his fingers over the sticky mess, brings trembling fingers to his mouth.

Tom walks towards the gym with him in tow.

“That’s a little more like it. Doesn’t it feel good to get your blood going?” Tom asks, sincerely happy.

Jake nods. It feels really fucking good. Scummy, but good.

“Honestly, you’d be lost without me,” Tom quips, placing the phone on a shelf above his work bench. “Now, watch me beat your score.”

And he means no innuendo. Nothing at all.

But Jake eats the scraps. He feeds himself plenty.

He watches the interesting young god do push-ups with boyish vigor.

Jake tucks himself back in his underwear. He pulls up his pants. He lies there for hours, watching sweat bloom on the back of Tom’s shirt.

It will do.


End file.
